[x]

chicagoi could write the city
and i could map its bones:
tell of rotting meat and market,
growling jewels and veins,
synapses placing burnt bile
back onto asphaltian blame—

but i am not the glowing night
nor am i the city's name:
i do not carry its graceless hues
nor do i speak its windy lake—

i am empty of its disease,
of urban laziness and industry,
of greedy capsule and success,
of dirty hammocks and crying song,
of never silence and constant swaying,
of dizzy streets and crowd—

only its image rests upon me,
only its scars break my tongue,
and i think home, home—

is not where you grew up
but where you grew in.

salti of you,
such a beautiful mess, intertwined and overrun.
your arms, copper lips, citrus,
a lovin' with a twist.

my summer away at space pirate camp,
i took to howling with you the first thunder of june;
flesh, storms,
the hunt for human brains,

Maybe Zombies Just Want To Hug?
- 6 lies to tell yourself if shipwrecked.

i can't explain the feelings i get.

wakewalking,
blue dream before i sleep:
the soul cupping rice (glass figurines, lamp light eyes).

my fear is milk two sugars.
drink drink drink
beneath it all,
floral growth, silver spoons,
featherweight

wistariawistaria blooms once

and then again,
rotting sweet on trellises,
nursed at the breast of clouds
pregnant with filth,

swallowing manors
and their stately gardens,
choking june's gentler flowers
with lilac facade,

petals whispered twice.

I am living from moment to Moment--a directorial gaze for these scenes that startle and fade
when I come to the realization of their red essence:
the lighting of a blowtorch perfected by strains,
lips parted like the hideous birth of a child,
inhalation that drags my blood to breath,
a sky quilted by lights unnatural,

a man who lingers in the foreground of each apparition,
his hands sudden as peaches when I lie on the grass,
absorbing jade water as he stands by the fire,
speaking thick tongues unleft to fruition.

his shadowed palms become the symbols of my head:
unspoken, callused.

unfolded letter having something to do with shame

hello again.

i was here, just now, and i thought of waiting.
but you won't come.
and even as i say these words, i know they must remain unborn
like busy blood the coffers keep.

these sounds are ways i cannot be, i don't believe,
i'm not alive.
but i'll arrange them, anyway, one by one
to be eaten by your oval minion
or blindly forwarded like propaganda.

i am always without you and without myself.
i offer this ambassador, but he only sees the stain of things
and not even this; just their emblems, their saltless confederacy
of coincidence.

i've wondered if you're searching nights
for dark clad summoners, or silhouettes &#

AcquittalWon't you leave me? I will love you
more than if you stay, transfixed

to the point of reference, our bodies
melding a sad, soft sublime, the back

spine of a little universe blown out
like a crafter's hot glass, the growing

moment, the wonder, the expansion
before a chill.

IntimacyI asked to be slapped—
and your palm met my cheek
with constraint, cupped to lessen
the ensuing redness, the responsive tears
that welled but only in my left eye.

There are things like tealights
and dinners after midnight that we agree
to be romantic: that we consume
through antique filters, lace
between our fingers, but your palms
sweat when we hold hands
and I've never liked skin webbing,
nor the catch of calluses—

So, I propose to rewrite
a definition: mostly for my sake,
but also for the sakes of others
who have found themselves wondering
if they might be a-something
because they don't like to be touched
softly on the sk

the poem i never wrotei’ve got four fingers on each hand
to count and recount the carnal instinct of familiarity.

i have kissed you out of the liveliness of the moon
and her returning blanket of sea, like the softness & quietude

of your eyelid’s atlantic flutter. like the blue dream of sky
that extends the cover of your vagrant esteem. your heart,

gypsy to the cadence of likeness domestic of catholic balance
gingerly, ever able and oh so nomadic

extends the voice of its beat as small as the world
and as vast as our amalgamated essentiality. sunly

is you by which i am reborn, and time fails us
where the aim of waking is to dream.

i’ve got

abuelaevery morning,
she makes yellow tortillas
and grills them on the range,
inhaling smoke and blackening
crisp spots that crack
between her nimble fingers,
callused dull to heat.

she packs six lunches,
singing the tin tune a radio wails
in the language she half-understands;
her children speak it,
clattering into the kitchen and taking,
her work unthanked—

but appreciated.

she rinses her hands,
cold water for the newest stings,
then looks out the window;
their trees are kempt and yard green,
dull as any home along that street;
when she shuts her eyes,
she sees birds in tropic dresses,
lights a thin cigarette
and inhales smoke.

Midwestern Roadmapsi.

wine-fed confessions
are what brought us together;
with a stir of paint chips and skin,
we made clumsy love on the concrete
of a condemned factory,
moving in the shadows of machinery
that loomed like winter trees
or judgmental Gods
who still stopped to smell the alcohol
in our pores.

ii.

"will you pass me a cigarette
and along with that sign your lust
on the paper that will gray in a flicker,
bitter acrid and addictive
like the first high of tobacco—
a euphoric quiver
that lasted only a minute,
gone when you inhaled your second
seeking the same."

iii.

indiana is the land of crossroads,
where the wind blows
to find a better des

Youngattention: artists are those who have tapped
into the collective unconscious, either by insanity
or forceful injection, inducing a state in which the eyes
become obsolete, as well as any kinesthetic, olfactory,
or auditory senses. pure creation exists in the absence
of tangible inspiration: history books written in glossolalia,
thoughts descended from the rainbow serpent, memories
existing in an everlasting dreamtime, transcendent of meaning.

ataraxiai swear by these unworldly thoughts, a sin
that i bore witness to time murdering me within.

i swear by these strange, shifting bones
a neophyte of answer to the call of sorrow,
will seek god’s eyes in the offering stones
that built this life by transient morrow.

i swear by the lonesome abodes of clinical stars
to unsex un-navigate these tides of space
to free skysign intimacies as is ours,
and rid the cadence of this grace.

i swear by this internal, wicked flood
this beat asks for one: just and graved blood.

Hand and foot, Hip and breastHear the ever-wonderful =TwilightPoetess read this aloud here!
And now I understand the depths
to which a woman must sink, must
dig herself into, must push past with hand
and foot, hip and breast. It is not light I seek
but solidness. Not spring air soft against
my cheek, but the scalding touch of lava
forced for so long to be silent and still
now worming through a cracked
and weeping crust. It seeks explosions
because affection must be dramatic.
But the sky will not love it
as thoroughly as I do.

And now I understand the impossible
permanence of night-lit words.
They linger in the valley between my wrist
and fingers; stow themselves in my freckles.
I cannot erase their presence, ignore
their weight -- only hope for a lover
who will burn away your shape.

But I understand hope to be a fickle
and most unfortuna

on essencebut first, kiss my dopamine--

rest your untiring hands on this swelled belly: feel me
as i swallow oceans whole enough
to condensate these north pacific skies, and accept
petrichor’s last offering.

so kindly are these breaths
left to lay rest
on the beds of noetic trees, let us watch
as they breathe,
let us watch as they breathe;

tasting the oxygen
swirling at the back of our throats:
life.

i love how simply the lull of your voice
bathes me in laconic moonlight
how this longing slows time two degrees below
the sixth of listening to mountains grow

pieced is this slow-beating
apologetic metronome, teethed and
sweetheart these
were

MuselingRed wine rambles
curdle the air, but still
you dream; half-moon
body curled in the

lamp light. I am leaving,
I am leaving, choking on
some holy word—
the floorboards creak,

a sonata for my
changeling shadow
whilst you, hair tangled upon
the pillow, are spun gold.

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And should some why completely weepon nights wrought of quiet,
(born to the moonlight
who slunk between far theres
to nestle lines of silver,
when i felt her reflections
near)white sheets rustling
the only sound in my ear,

even the house held its ghosts
and rusting pipelines still;
when the streets were statue,
(and so rarely were the streets
empty)cars parked quivering
beneath the glass that held

my eyes in theirs: nights
when breaths were most rancid,
the floorboards creaked like
tectonics were his footsteps,
he the embodiment of mountains
shifting, eons spanned in frightful

seconds(when the moonlight
was shut from the bedroom
and noise repossessed)

.

Misconceptionsthe extrovert isn't—
self-possessed shining,
sun in the sky of a million
blue silks sewn together:
that summer to come,
a laundered morning strewn
with white yearning—

no,
and the introvert isn't—
scraping coins in an alley,
smoggy eyes above a mouth like
lines: red-cracked but parting
when stars break gray clouds,
calling on their mica beds
to reflect off his face—

no,
the extrovert is—
the man sweet-talking the first ideas
of his tongue,
waiting for reception—

while the introvert
thinks.

ethylenebananas
set in the wicker basket—

baby-green and cradle-firm,
perfect for the oranges—

apples and avocados who said,
"you are lovelier in person—"

when they yellowed,
they were likened to flowers
or summer,
something trite they can't
remember,

save for other breaths
shortened,

red skin
pocked,

zest meat
rotted,

avocado
brown-
trembling,

tossed—

into the discerning
garbage.

that animalthe bedroom pocked by—
raging low-lights:
blond seeking eyes
but peripheral shy—
begging habitation,

gone before realization.

Hemingwaywas half-right—
write high;
edit high;
proofread sober.

last nightour bathwater sloshed onto the tile.

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nirvana

by *glossolalias, Jan 12, 2013, 10:11:50 AM
Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers

leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt

and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—

Your light,
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet.

nirvanaby *glossolalias

Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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~breathingglassstars Mar 1, 2013 Writer

_{this is spiritual, in a way; i feel as though it hits me in a spot where few words are able to reach. it's astounding.}

*glossolalias Mar 2, 2013

thank you.

*archelyxs Mar 1, 2013

Featured!: [link]

*glossolalias Mar 2, 2013

thank you

*archelyxs Feb 23, 2013

The images here are really lovely - I love the way that everything is moving.

*glossolalias Feb 23, 2013

thank you!

*scatteredwords Feb 6, 2013

mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt

Ooh...

*glossolalias Feb 7, 2013

thank you

*IAmPoetry Jan 19, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Imagery is spot on as usual. Wonderful.

*glossolalias Jan 21, 2013

thank you c:

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